The Fugitive and the Pariah
by Vicious Pink
Summary: A story I've been working on for TWO YEARS AUGHHH. Two elves must put aside their differences to save Kirkwall and each other. Takes place over all acts of DAII but mostly Act 3. Some Origins references throughout.


_A/N: I'm taking liberties with Theron Mahariel's origin story. Attitudes between the Dalish (specifically the Sabrae clan), Duncan, the Eluvian, and the relationships between certain elves may deviate from either game for the sake of consistency, continuity, and my own nefarious plans. Muahahaha!_

* * *

The mirror was in pieces.

The human, the Grey Warden, smashed it right in front of Merrill. She couldn't believe it. She picked up a shard and turned it over in her hand, barely aware that Theron and Fenarel had begun to walk away with the human. The ancient ruins around Merrill once filled her with awe; she could feel the thinness of the Veil. Spirits danced in the shadows, voices sang bittersweet melodies, and then the darkspawn ignored it all, calling to each other in groans and howls that sent shivers down Merrill's spine. But now... the last darkspawn fell to the ground, speared through the neck by Fenarel's blade, and the magic was gone, snuffed out like a candle.

Gone. What powers did the mirror once hold? Its empty frame was a skeleton: no body, no soul, just the bones of the lost and forgotten. Merrill clenched the shard in her hand. It cut into her skin. She gasped, dropped the shard, and watched it break in two as it hit the stone floor. She pressed her wound with her other hand and cast a spell on it that closed her broken skin. She gazed at the mirror frame.

"What about Tamlen?" The words left Merrill's lips before she realized she had spoken them. She looked up and saw the three men turned toward her. The human frowned.

"I told you before that there is no hope for him," said the Grey Warden, Duncan. There was no patience in his tone.

Merrill grew hot with anger. How could this man have no sympathy? How could he truly believe finding Tamlen was so hopeless? Besides, was the Grey Warden not the one who smashed the mirror? Was this not his fault? She wanted to say all of these things aloud, but one look at Theron changed her mind. Theron Mahariel was white as a sheet, with dark circles under his eyes. He could barely lift his sword in battle. In fact, Fenarel was now carrying Theron's weapons, and Theron was only upright because he was leaning on Duncan. His expression said it all.

_I am dying, Merrill._

Merrill couldn't bare the thought of losing another close friend. She swallowed her anger and followed the men out of the ruins and back to camp. She would have to speak to Keeper Marethari about what she saw. The Grey Warden destroyed a piece of elven history! Surely that would be reason enough to return to the ruins and collect what she could of the remaining artifacts. The ruins slipped into shadows and mist as the group covered ground through the forest. Merrill looked over her shoulder constantly; with every new look the sting of Tamlen's abandonment grew, fanning the flames of resentment in Merrill.

* * *

Back at camp, Merrill's temper cooled, but she was still determined to revisit the ruins. She kept herself busy by looking through the precious few texts she had on the history of Arlathan. Translating what she read was challenging, and she felt a headache emerging. Why couldn't she remember the word for _mirror?_

Merrill sat behind an aravel, her book rested on her folded legs. One hand traced the page's text while the other hand held her staff, rapping it idly on the side of the aravel. She had wished for seclusion, but Fenarel buzzed around Merrill like a gnat. He kept asking her questions about Theron, about his condition, but Merrill had no answers. She figured Theron just needed a stronger dose of the keeper's antidote and he would be fine. The more noise Fenarel made, the further Merrill buried her head into her book. He lowered his head close to hers and asked as plain as day if Theron would live. Merrill swatted him with her staff.

"Stop worrying," she said, not taking her eyes off the book. She read aloud, "'and there will come a-'"

Fenarel interrupted. "How can you be so..." He grunted. "He might _die! _You're not going to see what Theron's doing in the aravel with the keeper and Duncan?"

Merrill looked up at last. "The keeper and who?"

"Duncan. Duncan! The Grey Warden?"

"Oh, yes." Merrill frowned. "I can't remember that human name of his." A lie. She remembered it all too well.

Fenarel crossed his arms and glared at Merrill. "You're avoiding the question. Look, I know you care about Theron like a-"

Merrill loudly cleared her throat, shut her book and stood up. "Well, there goes my concentration. No, I'm not going to bother the keeper. That's a private matter. And I think-"

"But you're her First!"

Merrill waved her hand dismissively. "All the more reason to show respect and-"

Just then, she spotted a crowd gathered around Keeper Marethari's aravel. She took Fenarel by the hand and rushed to join the throng. Merrill listened to the light chatter. She heard the other elves mumble that Theron looked better, that he must be healed. Others questioned the Grey Warden's intentions. There were theories about Duncan healing Theron this time, not Marethari.

Merrill stood on the tips of her toes and craned her head. "Where is he?"

Fenarel tapped Merrill on her shoulder then pointed to his right. "He's coming over now."

She heard Theron's voice. "Thank you, but I need to see her first."

Someone else shouted for everyone to make way. The crowd parted right in front of Merrill, and before her was Theron. His skin was healthy and tan, his vallaslin a brighter purple, his posture straight. He closed the distance between himself and Merrill. Surprised, she took a step back. Keeper Marethari emerged from the aravel and called the rest of the clan to an impromptu meeting.

As Theron approached Merrill, he hooked her under an arm and led her to the deserted clearing used for archery practice.

Merrill babbled small talk to make up for her confusion. "Praise the gods you're healed! I-I was worried. Fenarel was, too. Will the Grey Warden be leaving soon? Do you need more herbs? A-Are we going to practice? I don't have my bow."

"Merrill," said Theron, sighing, "I just want to talk. Alone."

Merrill stopped in front of a practice dummy and tapped it with her staff. "What about him?"

Theron smiled. "He's good at keeping secrets. Now listen," he continued. "I saw you at the ruins, as we were leaving. I know about the shard."

Merrill swallowed. "Yes, I shouldn't have picked up the piece, but it didn't do any permanent damage. I healed my hand right away."

Theron looked at Merrill sidelong. After a pause, he said, "You kept it."

Merrill looked at the ground.

"Why?" he asked.

"Are you forgetting about Tamlen?" said Merrill hotly. "Until we find-"

"No!" Theron exclaimed, putting his hands on Merrill's shoulders. "I know you want to put the mirror back together and find Tamlen, but you need to know what Duncan told me."

Merrill scoffed. "Duncan! What do we care what a human has to say about elven magic?"

"Because it's not about elves! It's about darkspawn! It's a Blight!"

Merrill froze. "B-blight?"

Theron nodded slowly. His hands dropped to his sides. Suddenly, Merrill was less sure of Theron's recovery. She took a step closer and scrutinized his face. She put a hand on his cheek, and turned his face toward hers. They locked gazes; she gasped.

"Your eyes..." her voice trailed off.

"I know."

His eyes were colorless.

Merrill spoke slowly. "Theron. I... this means... you're not..."

"I'm corrupted. That mirror, Merrill. It was the mirror!"

Merrill shook her head. "But the keeper-"

"Can't heal me. There is no cure."

Merrill fought back tears. She wanted to take away all his pain, but all she could do was hold his face in her hands and dream of knowing the perfect spell. "What are you going to do?"

"The only thing I can do: become a Grey Warden."

It would have been less of a surprise if Theron had told her he was becoming a dwarf. Merrill reeled from the news. Her mind was overrun with darkspawn. Every thought was Theron cutting through one of those brutish, corrupted monsters. Her knees gave out as she thought about losing another clan member. Another friend. Another...

She was slipping. Theron held onto her wrists as she fell backward. Merrill jolted with surprise and shook her head. Why was the air so dense? Why was Theron so blurry?

"H-how will becoming a Warden help?" Merrill asked.

"I don't know exactly, only that Duncan said it is the only way I can survive."

"Can you do that? Can you be Dalish _and _a Grey Warden?"

Theron didn't immediately answer. He let go of Merrill, making sure she was steady on her feet, and looked around the camp. Merrill did the same. No one else was in sight. "I know what you're really asking," he said at last. "I have to leave the clan."

Merrill mumbled as she shook her head. "No. No, you can't-"

"And I'm going south."

Merrill fell to her knees and cried. "And we're going north."

Theron joined her on the ground, took her arm and wrapped it around his shoulder. He helped her to standing. "I'm sorry. Just remember that this is because of the mirror. Whatever it is, it's not worth losing you to it, too." He smiled briefly, but it faded as he turned around to leave. He started to walk away. "I have to get my things-"

"Wait!" Merrill cried, but when Theron turned to look at her, now several yards between them, she forgot why she wanted his attention. "I-I... wanted... to say..."

Theron took a deep breath, and as he released it, he quickly covered the ground between them. "Don't say goodbye," he said, gathering her in his arms and kissing her passionately.

* * *

Merrill looked out at the Waking Sea. Her view was awash with the reflection of the sun off the water. It was only the second time she had seen the sea, the first being when she left her original clan in the hills of... what did the humans call that country? Nevalla? Oh well, whatever it was called, it didn't mean the hills looked much different than hills anywhere else, and Merrill cared little for human borders.

The creaking of the ship around her sounded a bit like the creaking of aravels, only without the bleating of halla or the scolding of the keeper. Soon, the ship would depart, taking Merrill's clan away from Ferelden. Away from Theron. Would it be forever? She grabbed the handle of the chest resting next to her. Fenarel was on the other side, and the two hoisted the heavy chest and took it down into the ship's hold.

"By Mythal, Merrill, what is in this trunk, anyway?" Fenarel grunted and groaned all the way down the stairs.

Merrill tsked. "This is going to be the only exercise you'll get in the next weeks, so you should be grateful I brought along all of my books and supplies."

Fenarel laughed. "That's what you think! I'm going to do laps around the deck every day."

"Even if there are rough waves? Even if the ship is swinging this way, swinging that way-"

"Merrill, you're swinging the trunk!"

"Oh, sorry."

Fenarel and Merrill set the trunk down next to a stack of crates and other chests and tied it up neatly and out of the way of the sleeping area. Fenarel wiped his brow.

"Seriously," he said, "that can't be books in there. It made a weird sound, like the clinking of armor or... jewels?"

Merrill giggled. "You think I would hide jewels from the clan?"

Fenarel snorted. "Well, it's not books."

"Yes," Merrill said, still giggling, "you said that already."

Fenarel crossed his arms.

Merrill shrugged. "Artifacts, silly. It's just full of artifacts."

"Hmph. You sure do have a lot of belongings for a Dalish." Fenarel left Merrill next to the pile of trunks and climbed up the stairs.

"Some things are worth remembering!" Merrill called to him. He wouldn't understand. Not even Theron understood. She looked at her trunk. It hummed; it whispered a promise of Arlathan.

Or maybe it was just the sea hissing at the shore.


End file.
